


Unlucky Number Thirteen

by Llama1412, Void_Punk



Series: Don't Cry For Me, Temeria [6]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Brothels, Canon-Typical Violence, Dick Jokes, Flashbacks, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26858443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llama1412/pseuds/Llama1412, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Void_Punk/pseuds/Void_Punk
Summary: Living up to one's namesake was usually metaphorical. Thirteen only wished that were the case.
Relationships: Vernon Roche & The Blue Stripes
Series: Don't Cry For Me, Temeria [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1912225
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	1. Becoming Thirteen

**Author's Note:**

> So, on my [Witcher Rare Pair server](https://discord.gg/BsT3ckx), we've gone nuts with headcanons and backstories for the Stripes and the Scoia'tael. So here's a look at Thirteen's past and how he became the asshole we know and love in [(Im)Perfect Strangers.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26116723)

He'd never been lucky. He wasn't lucky when his mother refused to tell him what his name was. He wasn't lucky when the other kids scorned him and their parents hissed in whispers behind his back. He wasn't lucky when the troops came and killed all he'd ever known. He wasn't lucky when the last word his mother ever said to him, her blood rushing hot over his hands, staining them forever, was in a language he'd never been allowed to learn.

Afterwards, when the soldiers took him back to Vizima, when the blood failed to ever truly wash off, he named himself for it. Unlucky Number Thirteen – that’s what it actually said on his Temerian citizenship papers. The soldiers hadn’t know what else to do when that was all he would tell them, so it became official. He was Thirteen, citizen of Temeria. 

It was better than his last home, he supposed. Here, people looked at him strangely for his name, for the art he’d started inking on his body, for the way his paperwork said he was of age even though he was clearly too scrawny to be so. 

It was fine. No one important questioned it, and Thirteen didn’t give a shit about anyone else. He had absolutely nothing to his name when he left the Viziman guard station with his official paperwork – but then, he never had, had he?

Enlisting was stupid – the recruiter looked at his paperwork declaring him twenty with great doubt – but what else was he supposed to do? So far, the only thing he’d been any good at was bringing bad luck to those around him. 

Still, he wasn’t a bad soldier. Following orders chafed, but the rest of it was fine. The other recruits didn’t really talk to him, and the commanders all looked at him suspiciously, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for Unlucky Number Thirteen to strike again.

He hated the feeling of eyes on him at all times, hated the way this country that had claimed him as a citizen still didn’t think he was worthy enough, hated the way that he awoke in the night, shaking and trying not to vomit as he scrubs and scrubs and scrubs at his hands and the blood never comes off.

Every time he looked at his hands, he could see his mother’s blood flowing from her neck, could see her sad smile as she whispered something to him in a language she’d never taught him. But he couldn’t not look at his hands, couldn’t stop trying to wash them clean.

Thirteen got good at sneaking. He got good at feeling the eyes on him and losing them. He got good at creeping through the base at night to wash his hands again and again and again.

It was during training one day that things changed. The base he was training at was the closest one to Vizima’s Royal Palace, and while he’d never seen the king here, the other recruits whispered about it, claiming to have seen him in person before.

The man who came to speak to his commander – Commander Dickhead, the one who looked at him with a sneer that said he was just waiting for Thirteen to fuck up badly enough to get the boot – definitely wasn’t the king. But he was about the right age and wearing a stupid hat, and the way all the commanders in the area looked at him was the same way they looked at Thirteen.

He felt an instant kinship, for that reason if no other.

The man seemed to realize that he was being watched and he turned to look at Thirteen. His eyes, unlike anyone Thirteen had met so far, were – not  _ kind,  _ because they really weren’t, but… assessing. Open to possibility. Willing to see Thirteen for who he was, not who people said he was.

Not that Thirteen really knew the difference anymore. It was hard to think about anything except the way his hands were stained, stained with his mother’s blood and oh gods, looking down at them made him immediately want to wash them, but he couldn’t leave right now, but if he didn’t, he was pretty sure he was going to break down and all he could think about was the way his hands were stained red, red, red.

His sight was suddenly interrupted by a pair of calfskin leather gloves, clearly belonging to someone with lots and  _ lots _ of money to spend. Breath caught in his throat, but finally able to look away from his hands, he followed the wrist offering the gloves up to that same strange man with the stupid hat.

“Here,” Stupid Hat said. “I was told to get rid of these, and you look like you could use them. Don’t they teach you better then to go around splitting your knuckles?”

Thirteen blinked up at him, but when the man waved the gloves at him, he automatically reached out to take them, pulling them onto his hands. They fit perfectly, like a second layer, but this one wasn’t tainted red.

Suddenly, he felt as if he could breathe again. His hands were covered and for the first time in  _ daysweeksmonths,  _ Thirteen finally felt able to focus on something else.

“Your hat is stupid,” he said in thanks.

Commander Dickhead choked, either in surprise at actually hearing him speak – some of them weren’t sure he  _ could _ – or at his audacity. Either way, it made him smirk.

The man’s eyebrows rose high and Thirteen wondered idly who he was. He walked through the base with full confidence that he wouldn’t be stopped from going about his business, but all of the officers looked at him with narrowed eyes and sidelong glances. He looked to be about thirty or so, so it was unlikely he’d climbed his way up the ranks already. Who was he then, to brush off their scorn without a second thought? And for them to let him?

The corner of the man’s mouth twitched upwards and he chuckled lowly. “You’re not wrong” he told Thirteen, “but it’s very comfortable and utilitarian.”

“Well it looks dumb.”

The man outright smiled. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Thirteen.”

The man’s eyebrow arched, but he didn’t give the usual  _ no no, what’s your real name _ follow up. “Take care of those gloves, Thirteen. They’re probably worth more than either of our lives.”

Then, with a wink, the man turned around and sauntered away, completely untroubled by the daggers glared at him from everyone over twenty in the vicinity.

Thirteen had never been so fascinated by a person before.

“Thirteen! Back to drills! Five extra laps for slacking off,” his commander ordered. 

He flexed his hands as he turned back to the drill and for the first time since his world had changed around him, he  _ felt _ something other than  _ hatefearagonywhywhywhy.  _

The gloves didn’t magically fix everything. He still woke up with nightmares, still shook out of his skin at the memory of a hand guiding his, of a knife cutting through skin that parted too easily. But now, now he could curl up in his cot and hold himself until the shaking stopped. Now, with his hands hidden, he didn’t have to see the blood.

The gloves were the first gift he’d ever been given.


	2. Vernon Roche

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The man who'd gifted the gloves to Thirteen turned out to be Vernon Roche.
> 
> Thirteen had never found someone more fascinating.

The man’s name, it turned out, was Vernon Roche, and he was the king’s special… something. No one Thirteen had eavesdropped on seemed to know _what_ exactly it was that Roche did for the king, but the assumption seemed to be ‘everything’.

Well, that explained why the officers couldn’t do shit against him.

Thirteen decided that he liked this Vernon Roche. In fact, he kind of wanted to _be_ Vernon Roche, though perhaps not necessarily so close to the king. But he wanted Roche’s attitude, the way the man stood firmly before anyone and everyone, never faltering no matter how much hatred clouded their gazes.

Thirteen wanted that. He wanted to be able to face the scorn and the suspicion and the distrust without feeling it.

But then, it wasn’t exactly that Roche didn’t feel it, as Thirteen discovered one day when following the man after he left the base. When Roche first headed across the city into the slums, Thirteen had wondered if he was on some sort of mission. Then he headed towards the brothel, and honestly, Thirteen was just confused. There must’ve been hundreds of brothels they’d passed along the way – and nicer ones, too! So why would Roche go out of his way to come here, to this one?

Thirteen squinted at the brothel’s sign, vaguely wishing he could read it. It would be easier to get information if he knew what the place was called. But Thirteen had never been welcome to the school lessons the woman in his village before had taught and now – well, he could sign his name, and that was all he’d needed to enlist.

Roche slipped into the brothel and from the roof of a building across the street, Thirteen contemplated his next move. On the one hand, maybe Roche just had a favorite whore. That was a thing he’d heard of. But on the other hand… dammit, Thirteen was _curious._ He wanted to know what was so special about this brothel in the shittiest slum in town.

He chewed on his lip, debating his options – and then he hopped off the roof, snuck down the side and looked for a way to enter the brothel. The problem was, he couldn’t tell from here which of the second floor rooms were occupied and which weren’t.

So when he slid inside through the window, he really was _not_ expecting to nearly land directly on a _very_ occupied bed.

Thirteen wasn’t sure who screamed the loudest – him or the three women doing _something_ that he’d walked right into. He flailed, trying to get off the bed without touching anything delicate, and he just knew that his face must be on fire right now, but oh gods, this was not how he expected to find out what happened at brothels.

Thundering steps indicated someone was coming to check on the screaming and Thirteen panicked – he jumped right back out the window and frantically scaled the wall to another one. _This_ time, he peeked inside _before_ entering – and only after confirming it was empty did he do so.

Just in time for heavy booted footsteps to barge into the room he’d been in, the slam of the door audible even on the third floor. There was more shouting and screaming, and frankly, it was all a little much on Thirteen’s ears. Trying to tune it out, he began to look around the dark room – and jumped about a mile when a match flickered to life in a corner that he was _pretty damn sure_ had been empty and now was not.

The woman, who he definitely hadn’t seen when looking inside _nor_ when creeping around, brought the match to her face and lit her pipe. The fire chased away the shadows around her face, and those same not-quite-kind eyes stared at him from under a curly blonde fringe.

“A little young to be here, aren’t you?” she asked, her voice deep and smoky – literally, as she exhaled and the smoke curled around the room.

“I’m–” his voice squeaked and he cleared his throat. “I’m in the army.”

“Not old enough for that either,” she said, matter of factly. But there was no condemnation in her voice, no scorn in her gaze.

The door swung open and the sudden stream of light after the darkness had Thirteen flinching away from it.

“Oh,” Vernon Roche said. “You found him.”

“Mmm,” the woman hummed, crossing her legs and smoothing the skirt of her elegant dress. Almost _too_ elegant for this neighborhood.

“You’re the madam,” he realized. “You run this place.”

“I do.” She inhaled from her pipe and exhaled slowly. “Name’s Eliza. And yours?”

“Thirteen.”

“Well, Thirteen, you look like you could use a hit.”

“Actually, you look like you’re about to pass out,” Roche said. “Sit down before you fall down.”

Thirteen blinked at them in confusion, but his legs automatically followed Roche’s instructions.

That was how he found himself sitting around a small coffee table with the madam of a brothel and the king’s… something. 

“Tea?” Roche offered casually, and Thirteen suddenly realized that the man was actually carrying a teapot that was shaped like a– 

He burst into laughter and Roche shot him a quick wink, pouring three cups of tea out of the teacup’s highly detailed spout. 

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Eliza smiled as if she drank out of penis-shaped vessels all the time.

Maybe she did.

Thirteen took the saucer that Roche passed him and as he took his first sip, he realized that the designs on the cup, which he’d assumed to be flowers, were actually _also_ penises. 

He snorted tea through his nose and Roche laughed at him, then took a seat in between him and Eliza, reaching out to take the lit pipe and inhale deeply.

Then Roche offered it to Thirteen and all he could do was stare stupidly at it.

“You take it,” Roche said slowly, “and breathe in.”

Right. Made sense. He could absolutely do that without messing up. His eyes fluttered as he inhaled – and then the smoke caught in his throat and he was coughing roughly. Roche reached out and rubbed his back lightly, chuckling roughly. 

His head was spinning from lack of oxygen and whatever he’d just tried to smoke and Roche’s voice was deep and smoky.

Actually, it was a kind of familiar deep and smoky. Thirteen tilted his head and looked from Roche to Eliza and back. Same smoky voice. Same not-really-kind, not-condescending, not-dismissive eyes.

He had all the pieces in front of him, but his inebriated mind struggled to connect the pieces.

“She’s my mother,” Roche said, warm amusement in his tone. 

“But you’re with the king,” Thirteen said stupidly. 

“I came from here.” There was a bitter twist to Roche’s smile and Thirteen abruptly hated that he’d put it there.

“You knew I was following you.”

“You’ve gotten slightly better over the past few months,” Roche said bluntly, “but while your sneaking is good, your observational skills leave something to be desired.”

Thirteen frowned, not entirely sure he understood the words through the spinning in his head, but fairly sure he’d been insulted.

“So teach me better,” he challenged.

“Now _that_ would be interesting,” Eliza chuckled. 

Roche tilted his head, looking Thirteen over consideringly and Thirteen unconsciously straightened in his seat. “Why?” Roche asked. “What would you do with these improved skills?”

“Whatever you want me to,” Thirteen answered without thinking, then closed his mouth with a clack of teeth as he registered his own words. “Uh, I mean–”

But Roche smiled at him approvingly. “I could use someone like that.”

Thirteen swallowed, licking his lips. “Then show me how to get better,” he agreed.


End file.
